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Monday, October 22, 2012

Like fish on a line

Words are like fish on a line. We don't know them when we feel the tug. There's a pull and we follow it. We turn our body towards a distant spot under water, out of sight, and we wait for emergence.
When words flow the line drops and you are in the water with the words, tripping over yourself to capture them on a screen or page.
First words are like fish on a line. Instead of pulling that fish out, the writer has to jump in, unhook that line, and follow the fish. It's a wet and somewhat smelly business.
Last words are like fish in a skillet. You've eaten and then you swallow and then you move on to the night.
Night is like a fish on a line. It tugs you and you pay it no mind. It tugs you and you turn your back. It tugs you and you scream: turn on some bloody light. Its vowels are owls and its consonants are trees or tall buildings and its goddess is the moon.

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